Dancing Game
by Beth Winter
Summary: Back in the fifteenth century, Gabriel Van Helsing and Vlad Draculea play a dangerous game. Explicit erotic scene between the two, not much plot.


THE DANCING GAME

The last time someone interrupted one of Vlad Draculea's councils of war, Vlad had the man flayed and boiled alive.

This was the only thought that stopped Gabriel Van Helsing from leaving before the last old codger was finished with his report of the Turks' raids on his estates. He didn't think Vlad would go to such extremes in his case, especially since the prince was looking just as eager to get out of the room, but he didn't have the patience to handle another lecture on infringing on authority. His back was killing him.

He rolled his shoulders, hoping to dislodge the pain, but it only made it worse. It felt like molten metal flowing under his skin. Maybe that last Turk's whip had done more damage than it seemed to.

Finally. It took Vlad all of ten words to sum up the hour-long meeting, and then Gabriel was out the door before anyone else managed to get up. There would be talk, but he had a reputation for black moods already.

Servants and courtiers scattered out of his way as he stalked through the palace. His quarters were in the oldest wing, which had its downsides in the winter - chimneys were a useful invention - but in the heat of summer, the cold corridors were soothing. Someone had been brave enough to enter his rooms, light the fireplace and put away the hunting clothes he had left scattered on the floor after the skirmish with the Turks, so there was room for him to shed the heavy cloak and doublet. Gabriel took off his boots as well, then walked up barefoot to the narrow window. Timisoara's fires burned far into the night, the city growing more populous with each new tale of its prince's righteousness and valour.

"Really, Gabriel. Will you ever learn to treat nice things with the respect they deserve?" Vlad's voice still held a trace of the council-induced tension.

Gabriel turned to watch the prince of Wallachia enter the room. Vlad bent down to retrieve the cloak and doublet, and Gabriel wondered when he had learned to trust the mortal so much that his instincts failed to warn him of the other's approach. He had no illusions, but somewhere along the line their sparring had become a game.

Vlad spread the cloak over a chair and brushed dust from the velvet. "I think you'll find scaring people harder if you're wearing dusty rags."

Gabriel leaned against the stone wall, then flinched as pain shot through his back. "Why are you here?"

"To give you a choice. Either you let me see why you've been fidgeting and favouring your back since that scuffle this morning, or," Vlad smiled genially, "you get taken to see the medics. Dragged, if needed be."

"Get out," Gabriel growled.

Vlad just smiled. He was still in the clothes he had worn to the council, chosen to impress and suborn. The black velvet melted into the dark stones, and the silver trims outlined his body. He looked inhuman, ethereal. Judging by that smile, aligned with hell rather than heaven.

Gabriel shook his head to chase off the strange thoughts. Experience told him there was no reasoning with Vlad at times. The prince was as stubborn as... some other people he could name.

"Whip. Possibly barbed. I can't exactly see back there." Gabriel shrugged, which made flames dance across his shoulders. _I think this is what being beaten with the flat of a flaming sword would feel like._

There were few things he liked less than the palace medics, who cowered and simpered as soon as he set foot in their abode, so he was grateful that Vlad wasn't above getting his own hands dirty. He let himself be guided to a bench by the fireplace and took his shirt off without protest. He could practically feel Vlad's glare on his back, and the prince made no attempt at gentleness as he cleaned the whip-marks.

"Weren't you wearing a cloak?" Vlad pulled out a long thread that had stuck to a wound. "Even a barbed whip wouldn't tear it like this."

Gabriel winced. "It was too hot. I took it off."

"I suppose I should be grateful that was all you took off. Or maybe that way you'd have scared the Turks off by the very sight."

Vlad sounded far too amused by that mental image; Gabriel started to growl before he realized the pain had stopped. Vlad's hands were now spreading some kind of ointment on his abused back. The smell was herbal, rich, reminding him of a night in Palestine long ago. The touch turned his growl into something closer to a purr.

"You're going to live. Just don't sleep on your back today." The chance to boss Gabriel around and laugh at him seemed to have dissolved Vlad's tense mood. He sounded more like the boy Gabriel had first met in Moldova. "There'll be scars, but that's nothing new for you. I could play chess on your back."

"Just try," Gabriel muttered.

Vlad's fingers slowed, exploring Gabriel's back. "How did you get those triangular scars? I can think of no weapon that would inflict wounds like these."

Centuries past, and the scars still tingled. "Leave those alone."

"Not until you tell me."

Of all the times for Vlad to get curious... Gabriel felt a fingernail scrape across his back, which drew a deep growl.

"Come now, Gabriel." He could hear the smile. "If _I_ don't know what caused it, it has to be good."

"Guess." He should move, tell Vlad he needed sleep, but there was something in the air. The skirmish had been too brief, the council too long, and the pain had only taken his anger to a new level. Now it simmered under the surface, turning his thoughts in strange directions. Like how _good_ Vlad's touch felt.

Those inquisitive fingers were skimming the outlines of the scars now. "Someone tried to skin you for your impertinence? A pity the lesson didn't take."

A sharp stab of anger, no thought in his mind but _enough_. Wrists under his fingers. Fragile. No fear in the blue eyes.

The dull thud of the bench falling over snapped everything back into sharp relief. Gabriel was towering over Vlad, pulling the other up by the grip he had on his wrists. Vlad's mouth was half open, his pupils dilated, and somewhere between seeing to Gabriel's wounds and breaking his patience, he had set his hair loose.

The fire crackled. They both breathed rapidly.

Gabriel's fingers tightened, and Vlad's wrists reddened. They would bruise before morning.

Then Vlad lowered his head, a gesture borrowed from the Turkish harem boys of his youth. In a flash of clarity, Gabriel realised this was what their dance had led to all along. Vlad, he thought, was far too fond of dancing.

This didn't stop him from pushing the prince into a wall, or swallowing the soft exclamation of pain. Draculea might play him, but they both used their bodies in this game, and the sweetness was worth the fall.

Gabriel hooked his fingers into Vlad's hair and felt the other man's lips part under his. His other hand was still holding Vlad's wrists above their heads, and Vlad's halfhearted struggle only made his blood run hotter. There would be bruises, yes, and none would remark on them for fear of wrath - Vlad's or his own.

He pushed Vlad's legs apart, pressed closer, heat to heat. The resulting shudder was so exquisite, he had to break the kiss, pull back, take it all in. The pale skin was flushed now, the blue eyes darker, Vlad's breaths coming in broken gasps.

Then a flicker of coherent thought in those eyes, and Vlad was moving, freed hands seizing Gabriel's neck. Sharp pain at the hunter's throat drew a growl. It took the space of a breath to turn the tables, pin Vlad against the wall again, drink in the low wail as Gabriel sank his teeth into Vlad's shoulder. It was a miracle that he was managing to unbutton Vlad's doublet without incident at the same time; he had learned the hard way that the prince's clothes were not to be abused.

It took a bite to his earlobe before he realized that Vlad retained enough presence of mind to form words, still.

"There - is a bed here, more - oh!" Vlad's voice was even lower, punctuated by breathless moans and whimpers.

Gabriel saw the benefit of the idea. Beautiful as Vlad looked against the rough stones, the position gave him too much freedom, too many things to do with those wicked hands and legs. On the way to the bed, they managed to shed the rest of their clothes, skin on skin and burning fast.

Too much, too fast, and each time Gabriel tried to slow it, Vlad countered with lips and fingers and knowing blue eyes. Teeth at Gabriel's throat again, and the next time their mouths met, Vlad tasted of salt and metal and life. There was no grace left to their dance. Only fumbling and need and fire.

Vlad whimpered quietly, his head bent back, and Gabriel lapped at the pale throat. Then they were moving, and if this was the only way he could have Vlad Draculea's flame, hold that soul to himself, so be it. Each moment brought him closer to the precipice, closer to the fall.

Vlad's fingers hooked into Gabriel's back, digging into the fresh wound, sending licks of fire through his nerves. And then the world turned red and the night-

-shattered.

Later, as they were trying to get their breath back, Gabriel tugged at Vlad's earring with his teeth. "Do you still want to know how I got the scars?"

Vlad nodded, his lips still curved in a self-satisfied smile.

"Once, I had wings."

(FINIS)


End file.
